


You're my Hidden Wealth

by yuletide84



Series: The Duterte-Marcos Scandal [1]
Category: Philippine Elections 2016, Political RPF - Philippine 21st c.
Genre: Drunken sex, Gahd why did i even make this, Gsus kraist bail me guys, M/M, Mpreg, One Night Stand, hahah shit, hoho i will def get into prison for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-08 09:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6848710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide84/pseuds/yuletide84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sandro invited everyone to hang out for drinks, the person he least expected to join them was the youngest son of the newly elected president of the Philippines. Surely, it was awkward having him around as he was uninvited (because the Duterte scion had no Twitter to save his life) but it was even more awkward the day after. Since then, Sandro vowed to his grandfather’s tomb and grandmother’s collection of shoes that he would not cross his path with the Duterte scion if he could help it, but destiny somehow decided to tie the knot around them...really tight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CookiesAndCyanide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CookiesAndCyanide/gifts).



> Disclaimer: This is purely fictional. I don’t mean to demean any of the characters presented in this fiction nor do I intend to destroy their well-preserved image and reputation. I do not extort anyone nor do I get monetary wealth in the creation of this fan fiction. I repeat, this is fiction. Not real. Dream on, ladies. If the thought of man on man disgusts you, fly away and don’t read another word from this thing.

**You’re My Hidden Wealth**

“ _Win or win, let’s all grab a drink sometime after!_ ” (Marcos, 2016. @sandromarcos7)

Apparently, the nation had already decided—Duterte was elected president, Robredo overtook Marcos over the VP race and the senatoriables’ ranking remained the same as the week after elections. It was a very historical event for the Philippines and it felt like a ‘season finale of the Philippines’, according to a netizen.

Sandro Marcos knew it was a devastating event for his father seeing as he and Robredo were neck to neck to each other. However, he knew that crying over spilled milk was useless and decided to put his promise to his friends to work.

He organised a little party for all the children of the politicians who, during the campaign period, were separated due to differing views and insights regarding how the country must be ran. He thought it would be a nice example for everyone to start reuniting with his old pals. He thought that his plan was fool-proof and everything would go as expected.

But as soon as the party started, he suddenly felt a very cold block of lead setting in his guts. Large beads of sweat formed on his temples despite the freezing temperature of the pub. His hands began to sweat and shake in nervousness.

He saw the familiar large build of the well-known youngest scion of the newly-elected president sitting on one of the bar stools in the pub where he arranged the party. He wasn’t one of the people he talked to during the planning since the man never had a twitter account and it was where he planned everything.

Sandro barely knew the man as the man on the stools was so reserved and basing from what he’s heard from the news and in the media, his father was a man of Iron fist. Since then, he’s always thought of the Dutertes to be heartless and ruthless, just like how the media described them.

Unknowingly, Sandro’s feet brought him to the counter where the aloof man was drinking a small cocktail alone. He thought twice about inviting the man into his small get-together as he sensed that he might be reprimanded of his free, socialite lifestyle but Sandro’s not-so-rational side thought that ‘hey, this is a get together party; no one should be left alone.’

Taking in a deep breath, Sandro sat beside the man and ordered a drink to not make him look too eager. The man barely noticed his presence and it actually gave Sandro some chance to just back off and return to his party but his stubborn side insisted he push through the plan of inviting the young Duterte into his party.

He sipped a bit from his glass and turned to the quiet man. “Hello. I’m not sure if we already talked before but I’m Alexander Marcos. It’s a pleasure to meet you here,” introduced Sandro with an outstretched hand. The man tacitly looked at Sandro before taking his hand and firmly shook it with a small smile. “I’ve heard so much about your family and how clean and peaceful it is in Davao. I can say I really respect your father. Congratulations, by the way.”

Sandro wasn’t sure if it was just the alcohol kicking in or the man actually did blush a bit at the praise. “Thanks,” was all he managed to say in response—he wasn’t even sure if it was appropriate.

Silence engulfed the two despite the booming music coming from the dance floor. Sandro cleared his throat and thought up of a good topic to talk about. He knew that talking about elections would be a pretty shitty and stupid topic to talk about especially when the party’s purpose was to actually forget about the elections and just be friends with everyone. He heard an internal ticking sound as if to tell him that he was running out of time and that if he doesn’t make it in time, he would lose all chances of further acquainting with the youngest Duterte.

“I-I’m sorry but I haven’t really caught your name,” Sandro blurted out, mentally smacking himself. He knew that this man’s name was Sebastian Duterte but really?

“Baste,” answered the man and downed his cocktail.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“ _Sabi ko,_ Baste _pangalan ko_ ,” reiterated the man. Sandro nodded in comprehension. “ _Pero kung gusto mo,_ Seb _na lang. Mas maikli pa_.” ("I said my name is Baste. But it's also fine if you prefer calling me 'Seb'. It's shorter.")

“I see, Baste. Why don’t you join us? We’re having a get-together party over there. _In_ invite _ko sina_ Paolo, Brian, Jake and everyone else. I would have invited you too _kaso_ I didn’t know how to contact you,” offered Sandro while wringing his hands nervously. ("I invited Paolo and everyone else. I would have invited you too, but I didn't know how to contact you.")

“ _Okay lang ba_? _Baka_ private ‘ _yung party ‘nyo. Makaka-istorbo lang ako_ ,” inquired Baste and lifted one brow. Sandro sincerely smiled and shook his head. ("Is it okay? It might be a private party; I might just disturb it.")

“Don’t worry, I organised it myself,” reassured Sandro as he felt the cold weight in his gut lighten up a bit. “’ _Tsaka_ everyone would love to see you there. Chill _lang_.”

“Okay, _sabi mo eh,_ ” affirmed Baste and followed Sandro toward the crowd. ("Okay. You said it yourself.")

The night proceeded smoothly as Sandro has planned—or so what he thought. He remembered taking Baste into their table where they all got personally acquainted with Baste and then having a drinking game before dancing wildly on the dance floor. He can also recall getting more drinks than he anticipated and took shots until he was too pissed to think straight.

What he could not remember was how he slung his arms around Baste’s neck on the dance floor and snogging the living daylights off the man, which the man returned with equal unwavering passion. Also the way he allowed himself to get pushed against the cold wall of the pub’s loo, where they touched each other while snogging themselves breathless. He couldn’t remember how his body was burning up in mad desire and lust as they rubbed their genitals against each other, how he seemed to have an insatiable itch within him that he could not find, how he clawed on Baste’s chiselled body like a thirsty man to a brook of fresh cold water—he seemed to forget how sweetly painful Baste’s spit-covered finger entered his virgin hole, how he moaned and begged for his finger to rub on that unappeasable itchiness burning inside him, how he knelt in front of the charming and sexy man while he greedily sucked, slurped and juiced Baste’s baseball bat of a prick and drank all of Baste’s juices like a starved man, how his legs wrapped around Baste’s waist like a lumpia shanghai wrapper to its filling whilst he held on tight on Baste’s shoulders as the man thrust directly to his sweetest prostate, how he shamed the banshee for moaning and screaming Baste’s name loudly into the night as he climaxed so strongly that he lost his breath and saw stars for more than an hour.

He forgot the real reason why he was too knackered beyond belief that he woke up around two in the afternoon with a bleeding headache that threatened to split his brains into two and lost sensation in his nether regions. Groaning loudly, he crawled to get to the phone on the bedside table. He requested for the paramedics to come to his aid.

After sleeping in for another two hours, Sandro’s hangover disappeared—much to Sandro’s dismay of missing a day of work. He weakly dressed himself with the clothes he found lying all over the floor after having a lengthy hot shower in the adjourning bathroom.

He left his room at precisely five in the afternoon and was about to pay for his stay until the receptionist informed him that it was already settled by someone named Sebastian. The moment he heard Sebastian’s name, his breath hitched and his cheeks warmed as he pieced everything together mentally—waking up naked with a sore bum, clothes everywhere, and that bruise on his neck was definitely not just a bruise..

“Oh,” was all he managed before walking—rather, limping—toward the exit where he hailed a cab to his flat. He shut himself out from the outside world for the rest of the day, fearing he would find out that his unintentional rendezvous with Sebastian Duterte came out to the public and reached his family. He could not bear to hear the words of disapproval from his family, especially his most beloved mother.

Thinking he could escape the horrifying possibility of meeting with Sebastian Duterte in the Philippines and the talk from his family, he fled to back London after dealing with all the paperwork he was tasked to finish for the entire week without informing his family until he arrived in his flat in London. He tried to forget and ignore his reopening memories of his sexual encounter with the youngest Duterte scion to the point that he was under the hot spray most of the time to ‘get rid’ of the phantom sensation of Baste’s body pressed oh-so-closely against his own.

He tried to hang out with his pals in Britain and invited them frequently into his flat to chill, but to no avail, Sandro couldn’t stop his body from remembering the feeling of hands roaming all over his body in a praising manner and touching him as though he was spun in thin gold.

A fortnight into staying in London, his willpower caved in and allowed himself to lavish in the feeling of having warm phantom hands touching every part of his skin. He locked himself in his flat and in his room and wanked and wanked until he milked himself dry after three thrilling and breath-taking ejaculations.

A part of him was ashamed of wanking over a drunken memory but a part of him told him that it was to ‘settle’ the ‘debt’ his body is asking him and put an end to the ‘phase’.

True to its word, the latter part of him was satisfied when he barely felt warm yet ghostly hands trying to cop a feel on his body 24/7. He continued to live his normal life in London bar from having an unusual increase of appetite and getting too knackered after eight in the evening when he could normally pull an all-nighter for a week straight. He brushed it off as over-fatigue brought by the stressful campaigning period wherein he assisted his father in endorsing his platform to the citizens of the Philippines.

After eventually sleeping in for more than an hour, Sandro decided he needed the rest and took the day off and spent most of his day reading his notes. Strangely enough, he barely improved from his self-imposed rest. He still felt lethargic and he wished to be reacquainted with his bed more often than not—although, he noticed that the thought of eating seemed to keep him awake.

The following day, Sandro took it upon himself to bring some snacks in his classes so he could keep himself awake enough to pay attention to whatever his professors were discussing. Over time, his classmates and colleagues learned to ignore Sandro’s taunting food and just let him be. However, Sandro’s tiny snowball created a huge avalanche in his classes when almost everyone in his classes also brought their own food to class.

Somehow, someone happened to bring peppermint tea on a fateful Wednesday and the entire lecture room smelled strongly of peppermint.

Sandro was nauseous during the entire lecture. His face was pallid with a tint of green and cold sweat covered his entire face. His non-dominant hand remained clasped around his mouth as he gagged from time to time. The moment they were dismissed, he rushed to the nearest bathroom where he came face-to-face with the toilet.

Since then, he always gets nauseous whenever he smells a small hint of peppermint—may it be just gum or his car’s air freshener. A female classmate noticed it one day that she recommended him to bring with him a flask of ginger tea to help his nausea and so the following morning, he bought a lot of ginger tea and returned to his flat with a supply that could last him a month. After a few days, Sandro realised that the ginger tea did alleviate his nausea but didn’t really make it disappear fully.

Six weeks after returning back to London and almost a month after his finals, Sandro laid weak in his flat. He didn’t feel like going back to Manila and risk seeing anyone with a lip ring, tattooed arms, and a body built to astonish anyone who sees it. (Unknown to him, the bloke never stayed long in Manila and went immediately back home to Davao after his father’s inaugural speech.)

His close friends invited him to party like they used to before and watch concerts but he suddenly had a bad feeling about them. There were times where he went along with him and had a few drinks but he never allowed himself to get hazily drunk beyond his wit—somehow, after ending up with a sore bum in a hotel room after a night out scared the poor Marcos scion.

So far, he noticed that he was growing weaker and weaker by the day and conceded with his friends’ idea of getting checked up. Truly, Sandro was not fine all these days as his Iron dropped to critical levels. He was advised to take some vitamins that could help increase his Iron levels back to normal.

However, even with his daily intake of Iron supplements, his stamina still suffered. His normally three-hundred fifty-metre daily jog was shortened down to a fifty-metre jog and a three-hundred-metre walk that always ends with a long uninterrupted sleep on the couch.

His friends were already getting worried about how Sandro’s sudden lethargy and weight gain when the twenty-two-year old never had trouble staying fit before he flew to Philippines to aid his father. It was only when Sandro absentmindedly stroked his now slightly bulging food belly did his friend somehow connected the dots and came up with a theory.

“Sandy?” called his friend while staring at Sandro’s hand draw soothing circles around his bevelled belly button. Sandro merely turned to her gently. “Hm?”

“I was unsure if you were straight back when we first saw each other in Oxford because I swear to God I saw you ogle my ex-boyfriend’s bottom before but I’m curious if you’ve tried bottoming with someone,” she gently asked while fiddling with her fingers, subtly hinting her suspicion of Sandro being on the receiving end pretty recently.

When Sandro didn’t answer, she risked to look up to Sandro’s face to search for an answer. His flaming red face needn’t to explain as it confirmed most of her suspicions about ‘Sandro’s unknown illness’. She scoffed to herself and smiled at her friend.

“You don’t have to be shy, Sandy. I think I know why you’ve been feeling under the weather recently,” she told Sandro while giving him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “I don’t know how but I think you’re up the duff.”

Ten years ago, if a woman told him he would be pregnant with a child, he would have laughed at the woman for losing the plot. Fast forward to the present time, when his friend told him he could have been pregnant all along and it had been keeping him feeling so helplessly knackered all the time, he only blacked out and fainted. When he woke up, he panicked so much that he made most of his friends dizzy and threw them out of his flat. He locked himself in his room and hid under his blankets, thinking that everything might have been just a very, very bad dream. Sadly for the young Marcos, it wasn’t the case. He was brutally reminded by his unborn child that he was truly up the duff and is actually carrying the potential grandchild of the President of the Philippines when he had a rather fantastic and wonderful talk with his toilet bowl.

He really screwed up—literally and figuratively.

Thankfully, his friend had a close family friend who was an obstetrician that offered abortion at a discounted price. Sandro was almost convinced that all he needed was an abortion and he could return to his old free lifestyle with nothing to worry about. But somehow, doctors take it upon themselves to guilt trip their patients into doing something opposite to what they wished for. Like how Doctor Harper took a sonogram of Sandro’s potential child—rather, children—before taking him into the operating room of a caesarean abortion. But as soon as Sandro took a glimpse of his children in the monitor, he flat out cried in the ultrasound room and made a crying mess of Ferdinand Alexander Marcos III.

This caused him to postpone the abortion—but not so long as it might kill him to abort two children if they grew up so much already. Doctor Harper also advised that he talk to the other father about the matter as the conception isn’t a one-man job.

Sandro tried to contact the man—he swore to his grandmother’s shoes that he did try to contact the bloke and tell him that they were expecting but he never had the nerve to do so. Hours ticked by and he spent most of his time trying to stalk the man, checking his old posts and reading every comment and reply he had on his posts, and even listened to the Skype interview he had with Rappler. He read articles about his family and his background.

He actually wanted to know the man better before he tells him that they were expecting because Sandro knew that deep within him, he can’t find the heart to kill his children regardless of who the father is. He was already so close to telling Baste about their children. He was already so close to posting the sonogram of two little sacks of little forming foetuses in his Instagram account and tell the world whose children they were.

Until he read the article about him having two children and was happily living with them with his live-in partner. It shattered his heart almost instantly.

That night, Sandro wept his eyes through the night as the perfect family he’s ever dreamed of since childhood burned into ash in front of his eyes.

The day before the abortion, he rang his friend and told her that he decided to keep the children. It took him a good while to think about his life decisions and just deemed it right to keep the twins. Even at merely twelve weeks, the little bastards inside him already took a good portion of his heart and he’s already going mushy and motherly on them.

His friend understood his emotional sentiments and supported him throughout the process and even agreed on becoming the twins’ mother in their birth certificates. Sandro and she fled to Edinburgh in the guise of just having a vacation until March of the following year.

Sandro kept in touch with his family throughout his pregnancy but still kept it from them. Whenever he would post a selfie, he made sure it was from chest up. He also made his friend wear a pregnant belly outdoors to keep appearances. He was lucky that he spent his last trimester during the winter where he could hide his baby bump from wary strangers.

Starting on the first week of February 2017, Sandro stayed in their flat and was bedridden until the children were ready to be born. Doctor Harper also agreed to stay with him and brought her things necessary for emergency caesarean with her to Edinburgh.

On the eve of Valentine’s Day, Sandro started having abdominal cramps. At first, he thought it was just the twins fighting inside him and brushed it away—that is until he had it again with a greater intensity. That’s where he realised he was having contractions.

The labour went on for seven more hours until the contractions have been merely a minute apart. Doctor Harper proceeded on sedating Sandro and injecting the anaesthetic into his spine. It was meticulous, but it went smoothly. At two-thirty in the morning of February 14, 2017, Ferdinand Christian Marcos IV was born and after one minute, his twin brother, Sebastian Christopher Marcos followed suit.

Both babies were born healthy, with complete set of fingers and toes, and with a wail that puts the Banshee to shame. Half an hour later, Sandro woke up to see his beautiful and wonderful children for the very first time.

The moment his sons smiled at him for the first time, he thought to himself:

_“If I go poor and skint, you’re the only riches I can proudly own. If they try to seize my gold, I’ll tighten my hold on you. I’ll never give you up, I’ll always hold you close because you’re all the wealth I need. You’re my Hidden Wealth.”_

_Fin._

 

 


	2. AUTHOR'S NOTE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a simple A/N

Hello everyone. Sorry to break your hearts. This isn't a new chapter. This is a friendly reminder that this is just a oneshot and if you are waiting for the next 'chapter', I'll be uploading it as another oneshot to "The Duterte-Marcos Scandal" Series so if you subscribed or bookmarked this, bookmark/subscribe to the Series instead.

 

With Love,  
y84

**Author's Note:**

> Loopholes are everywhere @.@ Sandro just announced he'd be most likely back to UK by 16/17 and suddenly my calendar just whooped me off. Anyway, I don't think King's College have summer terms (!!!) but let's just imagine they do and for the love of tea, let's all agree this is possible for some reason-----ok? And please don't call the cops. I'm just a poor writer here. T_____T
> 
> Xoxo,  
> y84


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